


Since I Was Born I Started To Decay

by APortableBanquet (peregrinefalcon)



Series: Since I Was Born I Started To Decay [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Corruption, Drug Use, Light Angst, M/M, Moriarty's Web, Protective John, Protective Mycroft, Punk Jim, Punk Rock, Rebellion, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sociopathic Sherlock, The Game Is Afoot, cat and mouse game, fuck shit up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-05-31 23:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6492343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peregrinefalcon/pseuds/APortableBanquet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frustrated at the incompetency of the university police and the curious circumstances surrounding the death of Carl Powers, Sherlock finds himself investigating a death that seems to make less and less sense whilst falling into a larger web of underground crime and debauchery centered right here, at the university. An enigmatic figure, dressed all in black, seems to follow Sherlock about like a detached shadow, and he starts receiving texts from a blocked cell number. The name "Moriarty" floats in the air like a toxic miasma ... and Sherlock is hooked on the excitement of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to @corvusTempus for beta-ing!

They didn’t see him hiding in the shadows.

 

The air was rippling with the smell of chlorine. Sherlock could hear the muffled voices, the click of cameras, the water licking up against the edge of the pool.

 

“Terrible tragedy,” the university police shook their heads. Two EMTs lifted a stretcher from the ground. The figure lying on it was covered in a sheet.

 

“Yes,” the university president agreed, voice weak. His fingers twitched nervously and his palms were slick with sweat - no doubt from the thought of the letter he was about to compose to the parents, but perhaps also due to a reaction towards the humidity and heat in the room. That woolen three-piece suit looked undeniably uncomfortable.

 

Sherlock had not used the university pool since arriving at the institution a while ago. He found it uncommonly warm; though, perhaps this was true of all pools, Sherlock thought, as he recalled Mycroft’s unsuccessful attempts to teach him to swim in their childhood.

 

Nevertheless, the temperature oozed through his thin cotton shirt, which already had a couple buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up, and stuck to his skin. It began to seep through his pores, and Sherlock was thoroughly irritated. _Hurry up_.

 

The president coughed appropriately. “I suppose he shall be taken to the coroner’s. Though I personally reckon it’s an accident, or heart attack.”

 

 _Or so you hope_ , Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Murder is bad press.

 

The awkward shuffling of leather shoes on the pool tile ricocheted off the empty walls, towards Sherlock. He reached behind himself, pushing the door to the men’s changing room open, and sliding behind it. Through the slit he allowed himself, he saw the president, the fuzz, and other personnel pass him without a second glance.

 

He waited a good while to make sure they were gone. Then he went out of the changing room, towards the pool.

 

Something’s fishy.

 

\----

 

“It can’t have been an accident,” Sherlock rejected the explanation, “It’s impossible.”

 

“Well, that’s what the university is telling us,” John shrugged.

 

Sherlock shot him an exasperated look. “Don’t just accept whatever they tell you!”

 

“Do you think the university would lie to us?” John looked actually concerned.

 

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “They’re just too dense to see the truth.”

 

“What are you going to do about that?”

 

“Solve the crime, of course.”

 

“Sherlock, no-”

 

“Why?”

 

John flashed him an irritated smile. “Firstly, we have exams coming up, Sherlock, in less than a month. You should really study-”

 

“Don’t have to.”

 

 _Cocky bastard_. “Secondly, it’s a closed case. The authorities - who, mind you, are _professionals_ , Sherlock - have already ruled this an accident. They are not going to listen to you, some amateur, so what’s the point-”

 

“They’re wrong,” Sherlock itched with indignation, “I know he’s already dead, doesn’t matter, but something is wrong, and I intend to know why.”

 

It took all John’s willpower to not let out a sigh. “Thirdly, you have really got to let this whole amateur detective thing go, you’re a _university student_ -”

 

“I’m not an amateur!” Sherlock protested, “Besides, my grades are fine as is-”

 

“It’s not your grades I’m worried about!” John threw his hands up in exasperation, as he is wont to do. “I know how you’re like when you’re on a case.” He gave Sherlock a steely look. “You don’t eat or drink, save for coffee, and don’t sleep. If you keep this up, I don’t expect that you’ll graduate alive.”

 

“Then what would you have me do?” Sherlock hissed back. Free time swirled around him like some lethargic cloud, confining him to reclining on the sofa doing nothing, until the tendrils of bored sleep cling onto him and drag him down. Unproductive. Dull.

 

John gave no answer. That was well enough.

 

To be honest, John didn’t know what Sherlock would do either. After the incident last semester with the sap beetle infestation at the biology laboratory, Sherlock was effectively banned from laboratories save for necessarily classes (during which he was definitely carefully watched), and their landlord did not consider beekeeping a habit of responsible tenants (he was right; Sherlock was anything but responsible).

 

John tried to convince Sherlock to join the university orchestra once, but that suggestion was met with a sneer, and since then Sherlock would play Roslavets in the wee hours of the morning. Very loudly. They’ve received complaints, and John had lost a good deal of sleep over it.

 

“John, don’t you think it’s strange,” Sherlock started again. “Carl Powers was on the swimming team.”

 

“I am aware of that, you’ve pointed it out to me several times already.”

 

“He can’t have possibly drowned.”

 

“He may have had some sort of fit, or heart attack.”

 

“John, he was an athlete.”

 

“It could happen to anyone.”

 

“Yes, but the chances are significantly lower for an athlete.”

 

“It could still happen.”

 

“There was one other thing,” Sherlock paced around the room, his shoes clicking contemplatively against the floor panels.

 

“What is it?”

 

“His shoes.”

 

“His shoes?”

 

“I picked his locker,” Sherlock confessed almost proudly, not looking the least bit guilty. “His shoes weren’t there.”

 

“ _Sherlock, if you got caught_ -”

 

“Impossible, I’m too clever.”

 

 _Twat_. “Well, what do shoes have to do with anything?”

 

“He can’t have walked barefoot from anywhere on campus to the swimming pool. That’s just idiotic,” Sherlock noted. “His shower slippers are also gone. Someone took them.”

 

“And you think this someone is the culprit?”

 

“I’m almost certain of it.”

 

Sherlock threw himself over his armchair, resting his head against one arm and kicking his feet up against the other. “What are you going to do now?” John asked.

 

“What I do best.”

 

\----

 

The memorial was a small event. Students gathered at the university chapel, bearing flowers and candles and the suchlike.

 

Sherlock held a white lily in hand, trying not to wrinkle his nose too much at the flower’s cloying scent. He sauntered through the sniffling students, gathering that Carl Powers was not unloved in his life. He shouldered his way through strapping swimmers and (objectively) beautiful girls.

 

He inserted himself amongst a particularly large group of sobbing girls. With no small effort he summoned some tears to his eyes. “Such a tragedy,” he introduced himself, voice quivering.

 

A hushed “yes, yes” fell around him. Sherlock noticed that all the girls were more or less oriented towards one girl, with dark wavy hair and puffy, smudged eyes. _Girlfriend_?

 

The (likely) girlfriend managed to stifle her whimpering enough to manage, “Did you know him well?”

 

“All too briefly,” Sherlock replied. He considered whipping out a handkerchief to dab at his eyes, but that seemed too dramatic; and besides, perhaps it’s best if he kept the tears swimming in his sockets. Authenticity.

 

“Shame,” one of the other girls, a blonde one next to the (possible) girlfriend.

 

“Yes, he was a classmate in my anthropology class,” Sherlock lied, “He treated me like a brother, always helped me with my assignments.” He let out a helpless, mirthless laugh. “Oh, I was hopeless at that class.”

 

“Carl always did enjoy helping others,” the (maybe?) girlfriend confirmed. “In fact that’s how we met,” she smiled wistfully. “He was helping me clean up after a customer threw up at the café … didn’t know you could fall in love with someone whilst mopping up vomit, haha.” _Girlfriend_.

 

“You know, I’d love to say goodbye to him,” Sherlock shook his head sadly, “Properly, you know. The university won’t tell me when and where the funeral service will be. Do you reckon you could, perhaps, let me know?” He tried to edge in a little nervous tone in there.

 

“Yes, of course,” the (definitely) girlfriend nodded. Sherlock mentally catalogued _Kennal Park Cemetery & Memorial Gardens, A20 Sidcup Bypass, 3:00 PM Sunday after a church service _ as the girlfriend’s mouth moved.

 

“Thank you,” he smiled gratefully at her. “This is horribly rude of me not to have asked before, but what is your name?”

 

“Katie. And yours?”

 

“John,” Sherlock decided. “My condolences, Katie.”

 

“Thank you, John.”

 

He bowed out of the circle of girls, and began to make his way to his next target, the swimmers-

 

Someone nearly knocked him off balance. Sherlock quickly darted his eyes to his left side, where someone bumped against his shoulder.

 

A boy, around the same age but slighter than Sherlock, looked back at him. He was dressed all in black, but not like the other mourners were - he was wearing a beat up but well-fitted leather jacket with all manners of patches and pins and spikes and studs speckling it, a baggy, holey t-shirt, and scuffed black moto jeans. His boots were dangerously shiny.

 

“Sorry,” he articulated in a monotone as he shuffled past Sherlock. He held a white lily in his hand.

 

Sherlock watched as his dark figure mottled in with the rest of the crowd.

 

He decided to shrug the encounter off, although it troubled him somewhat.

  
“Hi, my name is John, I was a friend of Carl’s …”


	2. Chapter 2

Although the funeral information was kept hush-hush by the university, it was still well attended. Sherlock looked around him and counted nearly a hundred people. The two solemn adults next to the coffin must be his parents; there were also a some adults sitting at the front, so that’s probably family. The university students sat in the back, where Sherlock was. He spotted Katie leaning against some other girl’s shoulder, Jake clasping Michael’s shoulder tightly, and Luke hiding his face in his hands.

 

At the school memorial service, Sherlock learnt that Carl Powers was well-loved by his peers, but of course he remained skeptical; no one ever talks poorly of the dead. Also, anyone who disliked him wouldn’t have shown up at the memorial.

 

Unless they’re gloating.

 

Sherlock made note of the people who _did_ show up - the swimming jocks, first of all - many friends, most of which he met on parties - apparently he was also an avid rock fan, and had also befriended many people in the university music scene - apart from swimming, Carl also enjoyed practising taekwondo in a general interest club, so several of his fellow sparrers showed up - and of course Katie and her numerous friends were there.

 

There was also that one boy all in black.

 

Quickly, Sherlock looked around, but didn’t see anyone like him. Perhaps he didn’t know where the funeral was. Only about a quarter of the students who showed up at the memorial came to the funeral.

 

“He was an intrepid, adventurous young man, always eager to try new things, and challenge himself …” Sherlock glanced quickly at his watch. It was already 4 in the afternoon. He’d have to make it home for Sunday supper at 7, or both Mother and Mycroft would rip him a new one.

 

He thought about the boy again. Sherlock felt like he looked somewhat out of place. He seemed too slight to be a swimmer or a martial artist; he didn’t look like the type to hang out with the likes of Katie, who surrounded herself with caring and rather chatty people … yes, he struck Sherlock as somewhat unsociable. He also looked more like a punk fan than a rock fan, with the distressed clothing, haphazardly personalised with patches and pins. Sherlock didn’t know much about music outside of the classical genre, but he was pretty sure that at least some of those bands were punk bands, like “sex PisToLs”, “THE VIRUS”, and “RAMONES”. Perhaps they met at a party; that seemed the most plausible.

 

“Carl will be greatly missed. He was a friendly, caring, and charming young man who could talk to anyone. Without him, the world is a little colder and lonelier. The world has experienced the terrible loss of a bright young man with a promising future. Farewell, Carl. We will always cherish your memory. Thank you for your kindness and spirit.”

 

Boring. People always say the same things about the dead.

 

There was a collective shuffling noise as everyone got up. Sherlock figured that some of them were going to go and talk to the parents or something, and some were probably going to just go home. There seemed to be a reception with food sometime after as well, but Sherlock had enough people for the day, he thought to himself, as he continued to flashed his smile - frozen in an assuaging, sad, and yet apologetic expression - at the mourners around him.

 

He should go home, but after he introduced himself to Carl’s parents. Perhaps he could somehow find a way into their house …

 

Elbowing his way forward, through the throngs of people paying their respects, to get closer to the Powers. He could see that they were very much fatigued and distressed by their son’s death, and briefly contemplated whether he really _should_ approach them. What kind of answers would he get from them? What kind of answers did he expect to get from them? Besides, he could always _break into their house_ with relative ease …

 

“You never know unless you try,” Mycroft had always advised him … _or was he actually laughing at Sherlock_? Sometimes it was hard to tell. He took a step forward, _Hello, my name is John, I’m terribly sorry_ …

 

There was a flash of something like stars among the heavy blackness of the mourners. Sherlock snapped his head around quickly and met the eyes of that boy.

 

They were large and dark, and Sherlock was too far away - the other boy was standing quite apart from the crowd descending upon Carl’s parents - to properly make out what colour they were, but they looked very black under the cloudy sky. They were large and dark not in a soulful way like those of American actresses whom Sherlock had seen on the television were, but in a dead sort of way.

 

Sherlock quickly revised his itinerary and began to walk towards the boy. He had cleaned up considerably - which was perhaps why Sherlock didn’t spot him immediately - and was looking very sharp - threateningly so - in a suit slick as an oil spill - but nonetheless studded, subtly, with black metal, on the shoulders like epaulettes - and a black tie embroidered with lush black roses. He had switched out his strangely shiny combat boots for still very shiny patent leather cap toe oxfords, and his short black hair was combed back neatly.

 

Sherlock almost felt a little outmatched in the very standard black suit that Mycroft had made for his 18th birthday and a too-small shirt, with his untamed curly hair. Which was slightly ridiculous, since it hadn’t even been a competition to begin with.

 

The boy stared at Sherlock, but his expression was unassailable. He then turned on his heels and began to walk away.

 

“Excuse me!” Sherlock desperately nudged past people, hoping to catch up with him, but people seemed to move away too slowly. Exasperation burned in his chest as he contemplated pushing people out of the way brusquely to figure out who the hell is that -

 

“Hey, John! I’m really glad you made it.” _Shit_. Sherlock glared at the departing figure, and fumed at the infuriatingly casual way it sauntered away, a crow with its feathers unruffled. “As am I, Katie. How are you faring?”

 

“To be honest, not well, John. I thought I was starting to feel better, maybe well enough to stop seeing the university counselor on such a frequent basis, but the funeral service brought up too many memories and feelings, and I can’t …” She started choking with small sobs again, and Sherlock could feel his patience grow thinner. The boy was about to turn behind the church and disappear out of Sherlock’s sight.

 

Right before he did, he shot Sherlock one last look. Then he disappeared completely.

 

“John, you alright?”

 

“Yes; I’m alright now. Look, I really have to go …”

 

“Yes, sorry, I’ll see you in school …”

 

\----

 

He knew it was dumb.

 

There was no one around. The churchyard was empty. Sherlock barged into the church and could see no one but the pastor. “Yes, child?” The old man asked, slightly startled by Sherlock’s sudden intrusion.

 

“Excuse me, but did you see a boy, shorter than me, black hair, strange suit?” Sherlock hurriedly divulged out.

 

“Sorry, child, no one.”

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock nodded a bit hastily at the pastor and ran out the church.

 

He had hoped that the other boy might have waited for him. Now it seemed like a stupid idea.

 

“I’ll catch you later,” he said to no one in particular, and hoped that someone in particular had heard him.

 

Then he left.

 

\----

 

“So, I heard about the terrible accident at school,” Mother commented a few minutes into supper. Although it seemed like strange talk at the dinner table, it was one of the less strange things to be discussed at the Holmes’ table. The Holmes did not concern themselves with the “properness” of certain topics as suppertime conversation, and this both helped them become very unfazeable people, but at the same time people with no sense of the idea of “unsettling” or “improper” behaviour.

 

This evidently worked both in favour for and against them at times.

 

“It’s not an accident,” Sherlock corrected as he took to his mash with barely veiled frustration. He was still angry at missing the mysterious boy at the funeral.

 

“You reckon?” Father inquired. Father had always been a rather good listener to Sherlock, and was very supportive of his investigative work.

 

Sherlock sawed viciously at his roast. “Yes. Don’t you think it’s a bit strange? He was a star swimmer, and he drowned. Also, someone had stolen his shoes.”

 

“His shoes?” Mother raised an eyebrow.

 

“Yes, they weren’t in his locker.”

 

“Maybe it was the police,” Father suggested.

 

“No; I was there before the police had properly checked everything, because they never do,” Sherlock sneered at his Yorkshire puddings.

 

“Sherlock, you could have gotten into trouble!” admonished Mycroft, who sometimes seemed like the only person in the family with a single ounce of common sense.

 

“Well, I didn’t,” Sherlock grinned at him mockingly.

 

“Well that’s exciting!” Father concluded. “Do you have an idea who would have done it?” Mother asked.

 

“Stop, you’re encouraging him!”

 

“No, but there was this strange boy,” Sherlock frowned as he forked peas into his mouth. “Some kind of punk, I think. I saw him both at the memorial and the funeral.”

 

“Did you say hello to him?”

 

“No, Father, I tried but he took off when he saw me.”

 

Mother smiled in a way that Sherlock didn’t entirely like. Then again, Sherlock disliked most smiles, which was quite unfortunate, since his family smiled quite often, and they all had various implications that Sherlock was not often fond of. “Secret admirer?”

 

“ _Mother_ ,” Sherlock shot her a long-suffering look as he put down his fork. “Look, I just saw him in passing and I thought he looked suspicious. I’d never seen him around otherwise.”

 

“Finish your supper, Sherlock,” Father suggested at the sight of Sherlock putting down his fork. “Your mother’s only joking; you know how she’s like. But that is strange. He shouldn’t have any reason to run away from you if he weren’t guilty of _something_ …”

 

“Then he’s probably not guilty of liking Sherlock, at least,” Mycroft concluded, “I don’t see how anyone really could, in _that_ sense.”

 

“Mycroft!” Mother protested his meanness.

 

Sherlock didn’t mind. Mycroft understood. He partially made himself unlikeable because he didn’t want people to like him and thus bother him, in whichever way they could possibly like him. The other reason why he behaved like a total arse was because he hated people in general and enjoyed tormenting them by being a total arse.

 

Mycroft largely did the same, but not quite. He wasn’t an arse, but he wasn’t sociable or friendly either. He was just … tolerant, and civil; and that intimidated people, much to his advantage.

 

Sherlock returned to his plate. The roast was really quite excellent; he never noticed how fond of Mother’s cooking he was until he came back home on the weekends. Both John and himself weren’t great cooks, so they often just had take-out, which was nowhere near Mother’s cooking.

 

Supper continued with smaller talk, as Mycroft started talking about some boring assignment he’s received at work, which he was inexplicably almost excited about, and Father was, as usual, very interested, and Mother sounded very proud. Sherlock nodded noncommittally as he finished his supper. However, when Mother started talking about her students, Sherlock couldn’t help but snort at their inability to comprehend basic maths.

 

“Infinite series aren’t really that basic,” Mother corrected Sherlock, but it was partially a lie, since that was pretty standard maths in the Holmes’ household. That’s what you get with a maths professor as a mother.

 

“Is everyone finished?” Father opened up the conversation for Mycroft’s favourite topic: dessert. “Yes it seems so,” Mother noted. She left the table, and Sherlock heard her lift the cover off the steamer. So it was a steamed pudding. Mycroft probably smelled it the moment he entered the door anyway.

 

Mother brought out the pudding, together with a warm butterscotch sauce. Mycroft looked approvingly at the dessert, but Sherlock, for some reason, didn’t want any. He usually enjoyed Mother’s steamed pudding a lot, so when Sherlock asked to excuse himself from the table, Mother told him that she’d pack some in a box for him, so he can take it back to university when Mycroft drove him over on his way to work tomorrow morning. Sherlock nodded as he pushed his chair back and walked upstairs to his room.

 

\----

 

He stripped himself of his funeral clothes and flopped onto his bed in his underwear. On the wall directly facing him were various news clippings about Carl Powers’ death, and some photocopied pages he got from the library about young athlete deaths, with the ones relating to water circled out in red. None of it was particularly helpful. He was getting nowhere.

 

Frustrated, he picked up a seat cushion lying on the ground, conveniently adjacent to his right hand, and tossed it against the wall, onto which it landed with a rather satisfying _thump_ , and took a newspaper clipping down with it. Sherlock grumbled a little, since he had to tape that back up at some point.

 

Mycroft, Father, and Mother were still chatting jovially downstairs. They likely didn’t notice Sherlock’s little outburst.

 

Sherlock’s phone suddenly lit up next to him. Text message. _Probably John_ , Sherlock groaned as he picked up the phone. _Maybe he’s wondering if I want to hang out with Gaston Lestrade and everyone later tonight_ …

 

He bolted up sitting in his bed. It wasn’t from John.

 

 _Back off_.

 

Sherlock didn’t recognise the number. He ran a trace through an application that Mycroft had helped him install on his phone - it was a Saturday a couple months ago and they were both bored out of their minds, and it was raining, and Mycroft had decided to teach Sherlock a couple of tricks he picked up at his job - but the ID came back as unidentifiable.

 

 _Who is this?_ Sherlock typed, and he secretly hoped that it was him.

 

He expected some standard answer, like _What makes you think I’ll tell you?_ or _Do you think I’m dumb?_ or in the worst case scenario, _Sorry, wrong number_ …

 

The response came quickly enough.

 

 _That’s for you to find out_.

 

 _Fuck_ , Sherlock thought excitedly, a rare smile stretching across his face, _I’m not going to sleep tonight_.

 

Desperately hopeful, he typed out, _I really liked the tie you wore today_.

 

 _Thank you, love_. Sherlock saw an ellipsis enclosed in a speech bubble show up on his phone, and then the name _Alexander McQueen_. popped up on Sherlock’s screen, identifying the tie’s origin.

 

So it _was_ him. _Will I see you again?_ Sherlock felt his own excitement and impatience burning inside his chest. He was positively itching to find out.

 

 _That depends on where you’re looking_.

 

Oh, this is fantastic. Sherlock loved playing games like this. He’s almost thankful that Carl had died; he hadn’t been this amused in ages.

 

 _I’ll find you_. Sherlock promised.

 

 _Goodnight, Sherlock. x_.

  
Then Sherlock’s phone never lit up again that night.


End file.
